


these soft looks

by musetrax (muselives)



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 18:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11296317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muselives/pseuds/musetrax
Summary: Benvolio POV of the kiss (1x01, 1x02)





	these soft looks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitoky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitoky/gifts).



" _I’m sure as a serving girl it must thrill you to no end to see the rules of Veronan society flouted before your very eyes._ "

" _As it happens my lord, I am both a servant and a Capulet._ "

This memory of her rouses to mind as the sweep of her cloak announces her departure, her steps hastening to a run although all in the chamber are too astonished to do more than watch Lord Capulet’s niece beat her sudden retreat.

It is unsurprising that the Prince recovers first but there is, Benvolio thinks, a care in his features that marks him as the prey to both bitter old men he passes between. Her Grace’s embarrassed, “ _Escalus!_ ” does not stop their sovereign from departing with no further instruction to go in pursuit of the maid.

Princess Isabella draws any despair she may have of this union down into a regal command. “Find her,” she states to her soldiers and for some reason when her eyes meet Benvolio’s, he feels compelled to do the same.

Better than standing there as his uncle prepares a barb for old Capulet, useless, an unwanted heir.

Any beauty in the palace is lost on him as he moves in his pursuit. Only a passing glimpse of His Grace’s crown from across a courtyard gives him any prayer for catching his path. He may not have often trod through palace halls but all buildings have a sense to them and the young Montague is open enough to the archway’s whisperings to know where he needs make his turn.

He does so at a precipitous moment for His Grace Prince Escalus stands far too near to Lady Rosaline for theirs manner to be mistaken. Even at this distance, he spies the same weakness in the prince’s eye, the same that wounded Romeo long before the Friar ever plied his trade.

Then she with dark shining eyes looks up to him as well. Why could she not have gazed at him like that when he pulled that whoreson Truccio from her? No, not an ounce this trembling Capulet maid when he saved her life. Yet whatever had passed between her and Escalus, she has been nearly laid bare for only as her mind makes sense of him does her usual resolve recover.

As much for them as for the guard, he turns and calls, “I found them,” letting his gaze drop before curiosity overrides any sense of civility and he looks back to meet the prince’s eye. There, the man’s royal bearing returns. But even in this light, Benvolio can see the shimmer of spent tears on Rosaline’s cheeks not yet dried.

She regards him still, not yet fully in her armor. Harpy she may be but the thought of marrying him has truly moved her to grief. He bids any courtesy left in his heart stay unstirred. Whatever has passed between her and the Prince is as dangerous as it was tender, he's sure. Were these soft looks ever granted to Romeo, he wonders, or had his daydreamer cousin simply sense them underneath this harpy’s hot pride and icy disdain, spinning a twist of love from their threads?

This, unfamiliar as the sensation is, gives Benvolio hope. He does not linger on to see what else will pass between them but turns and strides purposefully back to his place before the throne. If Capulet’s tears have moved the Prince’s heart, who is he to admonish them? Perhaps they are enough to halt this ridiculous plan and spare him the profound torture of being forever united to the woman who spurred his cousin, sending him into the arms of death herself.

This strange flickering hope is rightly extinguished by Prince Escalus’ proclaimed word: “The wedding will proceed as planned.”

He can hardly say if he nods the farewell he means to provide the prince before he’s swept along with his uncle’s departure. It’s as it should be, thinking the cruel hand that fate has dealt him quite complete. Juliet’s handmaiden, her witness, her cousin now ascended to Capulet’s heir and the woman could not hate him more than if he had cut the flower of Verona down with his own hand.

Thankfully the absurdity crashes down only outside the prince’s hearing because the weight of it pushes forth a laugh. God’s ears, he will not think on her or any other Capulet this night, he decides as he spurns his uncle’s carriage for Verona’s streets. Let any man cross a blade with him that dares. He’d rather face the Prince’s justice and expire than bear another lash in the supposed name of peace.


End file.
